


Stuck On You

by trillingstar



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alien Culture, M/M, McShep Match Challenge 2012, Oblivious, Off-World, Pining, Traditions, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2012-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 12:02:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/503351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trillingstar/pseuds/trillingstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the team's day off, John and Rodney brave quicksand, caves, water traps, and matchmakers. Rodney admits to something life-changing, and sometimes John feels as though he's just along for the ride.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Stuck On You

**Author's Note:**

> Written for McShep Match 2012, for the prompt "the whole nine yards." WOO TEAM TIME!  
> Originally posted August 4, 2012. Thank you to my fantabulous beta, blackchaps, for staying up late.  
> 

  
There's a pounding noise in John's head, and then something off to the right blares to life, a steady pulse of sound demanding his attention.

Pulling a pillow over his head, John rolls over, curling up under the covers. It's his day off, he's asleep, and that's final.

A whoosh. Another slam-thunk. "Well? Come on! Aren't you ready to go?"

"Nrrrr," John protests, mumbling into the sheets.

"Are you still in bed?" Stomping. A thump, then a click. "Were you honestly attempting to sleep through your alarm?"

"Yup," John says, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "Can't sleep through you, though."

"Hilarious," Rodney says. "Okay, enough chit-chat, let's go, come on."

John blinks at Rodney.

"You are coming, aren't you?" Rodney looks anxious, and then he points at the backpack lying on the floor next to John's bed. "You're all packed, so of course you are. Chop, chop!"

"Palarian party," John blurts out.

"By Jove, he's got it," Rodney says, rolling his eyes. "Upsy-daisy. Coffee on the way."

Pushing the covers down, John stretches, arms reaching out, his T-shirt riding up, toes curling, and he yawns wide enough that his jaw cracks. Belatedly, he remembers Rodney standing at the foot of his bed and wants to burrow back under the blanket.

On cue, Rodney says, "Please put more clothes on." His voice sounds strained, and John risks a glance up, watching Rodney's eyes dart from side to side, landing anywhere but on John. Weird.

"You've seen me in less," John says, and Rodney's eyes squeeze shut.

"And thanks for that reminder," Rodney says, rubbing two fingers down the bridge of his nose and turning away.

Rolling out of bed, John ambles over to the wardrobe, grabs clothing, and turns back to see Rodney standing near the door, his shoulders set in a stiff line. He's studying the floor.

"Something I need to yell at the maid about?" John asks, exchanging T-shirts.

"No, no, fine, everything's fine," Rodney says. "Just hurry up. Ronon and Teyla are ready, I'm ready. Can't leave without you."

"Then quit dogging me," John retorts. "I'll meet you guys in the gate room. And bring coffee."

*

A while back, John spent some time flying choppers back and forth across the U.S.-Mexico border. There were training exercises and dry runs at first, then enough sticky rescue missions that he'd gotten soured on deserts long before Afghanistan. The terrain on PL4-125 is everything that John hates, a mix of scrubland and cacti, sand everywhere, and the sun's too bright, even with shades. For added fun, the gate's protected by a mass of quasi-sentient vines with a penchant for strangulation.

After hacking through a wall of vines and then hiking the four klicks to meet up with Sjola, the ambassador of the Palarian Council, John's sweating and thirsty. Tipping back his canteen, he gulps water, then pours some over his head, enjoying the coolness trickling down the back of his neck. When he opens his eyes, Rodney's staring at him, unblinking.

"What?" John rubs his face over the sleeve of his T-shirt. Rodney doesn't respond. "What, McKay?"

"Hm?" Rodney meets John's gaze. His face is pink from the sun, even though he reeks of coconut. "What? Nothing! Why do you care? Simpson's latest simulation exhibited persistent oscillating behavior, which is probably definitely wonky, not sure why, and does it ever rain here? Is it worth reviewing the collected meteorological data?"

"Better question is who cares," Ronon interjects. "Are we late?"

"We're not late yet," Teyla says, glancing at her watch. "But we should hurry."

"But it's so hot," Rodney whines, though he picks up the pace.

John's looking forward to the celebration. The Palarian ceremonial grub is good, and then there's the ceremonial entertainment, which is usually scantily garbed and involves undulation.

They arrive at a clearing that's barren save for one lone, hollowed-out tree, half-hidden from view by an eroded dune.

The first time they'd watched a door on the tree swing inward, revealing a set of stairs, Rodney breathed out, "Six-fingered man." John bit back a grin, only to have Sjola appear stooped over in the doorway, and he had pale, pale skin and whitish-gray hair and a husky rustle of a voice. Thankfully, John's resulting wide smile was considered friendly and honest, leading to the brokerage of multiple trade deals, then attendance at festivals, friendships, and overall PL4 was a welcoming, reasonably safe place to go on leave.

Like the Genii, the Palarians had moved their people underground; unlike the Genii, they have no interest in nuclear bombs or modern weaponry. The natural aboveground habitat is unfriendly to most creatures. Sentient ivy aside, the planet also boasts fields of quicksand spanning acres, scorching temperatures and unstable crater-sized abscesses hidden just beneath the earth.

At the bottom of the stairs, there's a track, and a push-cart that ferries them to different sets of stairs and a series of slide tubes, like the white plastic ones at water parks. Months ago, during his first trip down, Rodney had fainted, his body puddling into a heap at John's feet, out cold.

The Palarians thought he was dead.

"He's fine," John had explained. "Fear of enclosed spaces."

Sjola nodded. "We'll go a different way, then."

Each visit, instead of cramming through narrow gaps in the walls, they take a winding route, walking down high-ceilinged tunnels studded with more slides – some for people, some for water or waste – and creaky lifts. It's like a giant game of Chutes and Ladders.

*

Head Chancellor Merik is a wrinkled, little old man, and John feels okay about calling him that since the median height of the Palarian population is somewhere around four feet tall. That Merik is aged is noteworthy too, salt-and-pepper beard and crow's feet, his fingers beginning to curl with rheumatism. The Palarians have worked for hundreds of years to modify and perfect their underground life between hibernations, and their latest incarnation has decent technology, far better than many of Atlantis' other trading partners.

Taking a deep breath, John approaches Merik, inclining his head, and begins the ritual greeting, but Merik interrupts him.

"Colonel," Merik says, smiling. "John. We will not stand on formality today. You have arrived in time for the _swega_. You and your people will join us."

"What's that?" Rodney asks, moving closer to stand at John's side.

Catching Teyla and Ronon exchanging delighted looks, John's chest tightens with anticipation. Merik's invitation is an honor, because John thinks of the Palarians as friends, plus it'll make Elizabeth happy to cement the trust of an ally. Still, John's wary about exactly what it will entail. Rodney just looks confused.

" _Swega_ ," Merik repeats. "You must have seen it here before." He glances at Sjola, who roots around in his shoulder bag and pulls out a long, thin cord.

John's amused when Rodney, eyes wide, moves his hands behind his back, plainly trying for discretion.

Sjola laughs. "The _swega_. The obstacle course."

"Oh," John replies. Yeah, okay, he's seen pairs of Palarians skipping about, hand in hand, their arms bound together from shoulder to fingertips, and he'd chalked it up to one of those inexplicable cultural things. When Sjola extends the cord to him, John's hesitant to accept.

Ronon brushes him aside and snags the rope, and then announces, "Teyla's with me." He grins at John. "You can have McKay."

"Oh, that is so not fair," Rodney says, swallowing hard when John levels a glare at him. "No offense."

"Thanks, Rodney," John says. "Really feelin' the love."

*

"I thought our height would be an advantage," Rodney says, sounding grumpy.

John's irritated too, after having watched Palarians zip past him and Rodney, and he's pretty sure that a couple of pairs have lapped them. Twice.

"It's our first time doing it," John says. "Urgh, no, do-over!"

Too late - his words are drowned out of existence by Rodney who says, between guffaws, "How romantic," and then, "Colonel Kinky," and finally, "Ow, my stomach hurts, stop making me laugh."

"You know that's not what I meant," John says, hating how flustered he sounds. He yanks his left arm close to his body, just to be mean.

Rodney stumbles, crashing into John's side. "Now my arm hurts too, moron."

"John! Rodney!" Teyla's voice sounds from behind them, and by the time John and Rodney coordinate their movements to turn around, Teyla and Ronon are behind them again.

"Jesus, stay still," Rodney says, and finally they're all facing each other.

John glares at Ronon, whose eyes are sparkling with humor. "Watch it, tough guy."

"Are you finding the bindings uncomfortable?" Teyla asks. "Sjola will loosen the cord for you, if it's too tight."

"We're fine," John says.

"Obviously," Ronon drawls, and in a clean, smooth motion, he and Teyla lift their bound arms and wave their entwined fingers. Teyla looks smug.

John hopes it shows on his face exactly how much he wants to kick them both.

"See you later!" Teyla calls out. John watches as they bound away, the fact that they both have one arm tied useless between them apparently not causing either of them any difficulty.

"They suck," Rodney says. John agrees.

"Okay," John says. "Let's plot it out again. Down the hill, over the puddles, under the hedge, and across the plank. No problem."

Rodney groans.

*

"That went about as expected," John says, wiping sweat from his forehead.

"I want to regroup," Rodney says, and John feels about as pathetic as Rodney sounds. "My feet hurt. If I wanted to climb around on a mountain, I would have had Carson check me for mental illness. How much _further_?"

John slants a look at Rodney. "That was only the first one. Down the hill."

"It felt like longer," Rodney says. He avoids meeting John's eyes.

"Are you in a hurry?" John's almost joking. Rodney's been quiet since Sjola tied them together. It's confusing, because he and Rodney have leaped into numerous Pegasus rituals and exhibitions. Every time, Rodney yells about the injustice of it all and the size of his brain et cetera, but then he grits his teeth and does what needs to get done. John likes that about him. He remembers the time they'd made it through a difficult mental test by colorfully maligning everyone they knew, including each other. The day after was the same as any other, without unusualness between them.

"Aren't you?" Rodney asks. They both look at their arms, John's left and Rodney's right, bound between them. The cord shimmers, then changes colors, fading from dark green to black and then lighting up coppery red.

"I can think of worse things," John answers, and Rodney stares at his feet so hard it's as though he just noticed their existence.

They're standing at the bottom of the hill, a gentle incline that could be a challenge for a newborn turtle. It had taken several tries before they could walk at the same pace, with many stops for adjustments. Rodney shouted a lot. Combined with the piercing whistles signalling the kick-off of another wave of Palarians, John's ears hurt. He's sweaty and itchy and kind of mad that the mostly-naked dancing is happening without him there to watch it.

Several couples whisk past, looking as though they're having the time of their lives, moving fluidly together and laughing. John and Rodney get stared at. A lot. No one stops to give them tips or helpful hints.

"I don't get it," Rodney says. "You're not exceptionally clumsy. I'm brilliant. Why isn't this working?" He shakes his arm in frustration, and John's arm goes along for the ride.

There's a sense of familiarity between the pairs, safety, and the celebration of both. John wiggles the tips of his fingers against Rodney's, testing the bounds of the rope. Rodney's fingers twitch back.

They stand in silence for a moment, and then Rodney says, "They look so happy," as though he can't think of a more repulsive idea.

"C'mon," John says, determined. "We'll finish and then we can be happy too."

*

Up close, the puddles look less like the kind they can splash through and more like small ponds that could have unexpected depths. There are several large wooden discs by the water line.

"Oh, no," Rodney says. "No, no, no way."

A pair of young women reach the pond next to John and Rodney. One of them shoots John a pitying look, the kind that suggests he should be wearing a foam helmet for this exercise; they snag a disc, hop aboard, and an underwater current shoots them straight over to the far bank.

"We can do this," John says. "It's all about weight distribution, right? We'll have to lean on each other a little."

Rodney avoids John's gaze. "Great, just great."

"Hey, I'm sure it's not dangerous. There are kids out here." John tries to glimpse Rodney's expression, but it's too hard to move around in front of him. The rope is soft but not flexible.

"Kids don't care if they get dunked," Rodney points out. "Plus they live here and can run right home and change."

"True," John concedes. "But what I mean is, it's probably not unduly risky."

And it's not: John takes a cautious step onto the wooden platform and nudges it with his foot. It's steady, as though there's a strut underneath. Still, they can't sit like the women had, knees tucked up under their chins. They'll have to stand, and lean, and hope for the best. John plants his feet, leaning to the side as Rodney clambers aboard, helping to pull him over using the leverage of their tied arms. Rodney makes a funny breathy noise as he tucks in close to John, resting his chin on John's shoulder, but there's no dwelling on it because the disc zooms across the water and John presses Rodney's fingers with his own until they're safely to the other side.

*

"Is this what boot camp is like?" Rodney asks, eyeing the bramble stretching out in front of them. "Water traps, sand pits, crawling around in the dirt?"

"Sure," John says. "Sort of. Minus carrying a hundred pounds of dead weight and a machine gun."

Moving forward on his belly is slow-going with two elbows, and with only one it's torturous. Underneath the prickly cactus layer, the branches are sanded down, thornless, but they're thin and whippy. John feels twigs making furrows in his hair. Rodney calls a break by refusing to move.

"I feel like an adult trying to recapture his childhood and figuring out it was a lot more fun then," Rodney says, flopping down, his face mashed into the rock. "Wait, I am, and it was. Seriously, how is this the main event?"

John folds down beside Rodney, trying to angle their arms into a comfy position. "I'll take unknowable cultural traditions for $200." He rests his cheek on the back of his hand and studies Rodney's face. "Well, tradition. If you'd been running this course since you were a kid, coming back to it as a grown-up would be nostalgic, not a pain in the ass."

"Hm," Rodney says, opening his eyes, and John knows that noise, meaning that Rodney agrees but doesn't want to stop beating the dead horse quite yet.

"C'mon, buddy," John says, patting Rodney's fingertips. "We're almost there."

Emerging from the thicket feels like a crazy victory, like they were trapped there for days and escaped by the skin of their teeth. Rodney mirrors John's triumphant grin, then he reaches out, his gaze fixed on John's face.

On reflex, John dodges, bending back and away, and Rodney's expression registers a flash of hurt and then resignation.

"Fine," Rodney says. "Keep the flowers. Good look for you."

"Sorry," John says. Leaning in, he lowers his head and waits until Rodney sighs in annoyance, and then John feels the light touch of Rodney's fingers in his hair.

After a few moments, Rodney says, "There. Flower-free." With his head bowed, John catches Rodney rubbing his fingers together, thumb moving in circles. When he looks up, there's an odd look on Rodney's face, and John waits a beat too long before glancing away, and then it's awkward.

"Sorry," John says again, floundering, and Rodney clears his throat, replying, "You already said that."

They can walk comfortably side by side now, though Rodney keeps trying to swing his arms, and John's so used to cradling a P-90 to his chest that his bound arm twitches from the muscle memory of it.

*

Across the plank must be the delicate way of putting it. They're faced with a dim, narrow corridor scooped out from a wall of rock, with an even narrower rock bridge running through it. John can't see to the end.

Inching closer to the edge, Rodney stares down into the drop. "That looks extremely dangerous."

"Maybe it's a fake-out," John offers. "Like Indiana Jones territory."

"Maybe," Rodney says, disbelief coloring his words. "What happens if we don't finish?"

"Probably nothing," John says. "Or we'll get tortured or banished or something."

Rodney's eyes screw shut and he exhales a hard breath.

John rubs one finger against Rodney's, short soothing strokes. "We'll have to go through it sideways. One step at a time."

"Isn't that wonderful. You're going first," Rodney says, nudging at John.

"I figured," John says, grinning. "Loosen up, Rodney. This doesn't even come close to what we did on M2S-717."

"Yeah, well," Rodney says. "I was blindfolded then."

"So close your eyes now, genius," John says, moving his foot out of range from Rodney's boot just in time.

*

If only they were four feet tall.

Most of John's boots fit on the narrow bridge, but there's the constant feeling of being unbalanced, about to tip over and fall backwards into the abyss. There's no place to go, though, considering the short span between the walls. It's a laborious task, shuffling along the bridge, their bodies turned sideways to fit through the tunnel. Rodney's good about following, only overstepping a few times.

"I think we're about halfway there," John says, but Rodney doesn't respond.

John stops squinting into the gloom of the crevice, turning his head to look at Rodney, who's panting in quiet little gasps, en route to hyperventilation. Leaning closer, John can feel Rodney trembling.

"Hey, hey," John says, wishing that his damn hand was free so he could pat Rodney's shoulder or squeeze his arm. "Rodney."

"Still here," Rodney deadpans. "Stuck to you, remember?"

"I remember," John replies, keeping his tone light and even. "You don't look so hot."

"Well, I'm working hard on not plummeting to my bloody, messy doom," Rodney snaps.

"Okay," John says. "Wanna open your eyes?"

Rodney shudders. "Not particularly."

"Start with your death grip on my hand, then," John says, and the pressure on his fingers eases, allowing blood flow back into John's hand. "Ahhh."

"Sorry," Rodney mutters.

They're apologizing to each other a lot today. Usually, Rodney would tell John to suck it up and squeeze tighter.

"It's cool," John says. "Hey, Rodney."

"What?" Rodney grinds out.

"I think I see the light," John replies, and Rodney cracks open one eyelid.

"That was awful." Rodney steps again, easing closer to John. "Really?"

"Yeah," John says. "Hey, did you see the look on Weir's face when Ronon mentioned the naked ceremonial dancing?"

Rodney snorts. "Yes. Did you see the look on Ronon's when she mentioned STD tests?"

John laughs. "I missed that part."

"You were checking my vest," Rodney says, and he makes that low, breathy noise again, tinged with satisfaction. "You'd already checked Teyla's, and Ronon hardly ever wears one, which you're okay with, even though I don't know why because it seems like a good way not to die. Probably you don't want to fight about it, which makes sense, not that you aren't a good fighter. You are, but he kicks your ass all the time. You know the first time I wore a tac vest off-world, I'm not even sure it was the bulletproof kind..."

Rodney's babbling at him. John's used to general blather as an avoidance mechanism when Rodney's trying to deflect conflict or he's feeling anxious, but this is – it reminds him of something – something about – nope, John's lost it.

Twining his fingers with Rodney's, John tugs him along. "I make you wear a vest because it's responsible, and also, it's a good way not to die."

Rodney waves away John's words, rushing to share more about his own private game of baiting Ronon. "I told him that his dick would fall off," Rodney says, chortling. "And I made up a bunch of disgusting symptoms and said he already has some of them."

John laughs. "No wonder he didn't want to be your partner."

"You didn't either," Rodney says.

"Nu-unh," John counters. "You didn't give me a chance."

"To say no," Rodney asserts, scrubbing his free hand down over his face. He sounds weird, off. Downtrodden.

The edge of the babble-related thought flits through John's mind. Something about hair. His hair? No. Katie's hair. Months earlier, John had walked up behind Rodney and Katie in line at the mess. John complimented her styled hair, knowing Rodney would never notice, and he felt curiously compelled to help his teammate get the girl.

Rodney declared the cut a waste of money, the shape and curl of it meant for a poodle's rear end.

Katie's expression sent John back a couple of steps, and after apologizing for bumping into Sgt. Casarez, he kept his eyes averted, willing Rodney to shut his mouth. Instead, John had listened to Rodney's nervous jabber mixed with almost-apologies and a tangent about the time he'd taken scissors to his own hair after Mark Yam spit chewing gum in it.

Katie declined to dine with Rodney that evening.

John sat with Rodney and gave him an audience for some bluster, ending when Rodney had sighed and said, "It's like I can't stop talking, I get so nervous. I really like her."

The similarities between the situations aren't exactly parallel. There's no guarantee that Rodney really likes him or even sort of likes him, except that today's been rife with weird Rodney things. John wants to play this out, see where it goes.

Rodney squeezing his fingers regains John's attention, and then they're stumbling out of the tunnel at the end of the final obstacle.

"Please," Rodney says, picking up the conversation. "If you knew what it was about, you'd have picked Teyla or Ronon in a heartbeat. When it's a math-a-thon, then we'll talk."

"Never know," John says, catching Rodney's eye and smiling, enjoying the confused look on his face. "I'd probably have said yes."

*

The stone under their feet gives way to sod and yellow grass. After maneuvering around a couple of tight corners – "put one hand there, no, okay, you turn first" – John figures that they're on the homestretch.

"We have to be there soon. I'm dying here," Rodney says. "And I'm hungry."

They pass underneath a tall white arch. John sights the top of Ronon's head in the crowd gathered in what John's brain labels as a garden, but it's more like an explosion of colors and shapes, bushes and trees and flowerbeds fitted together. It makes a plot at Versailles look like a pot of tomatoes on the porch.

"Wow," John says, craning his neck to look up at the intricate irrigation system, pipes half-masked by screens and pulleys.

"Botany would go nuts," Rodney says, pulling on John's arm, and moving over to take a closer look at a deep bed of bell-shaped flowers.

"It is only accessible by those who have completed the _swega_ ," Sjola says, from behind them. "This is the site of tonight's feast."

John's proud of how easy it is to get them turned around; Rodney doesn't even step on his toes. He's thanking Sjola for the hospitality when Teyla and Ronon peel off from the crowd, joining them, and John accepts Ronon's high-five.

"Starting to worry about you, Sheppard," Ronon says, slinging his arm around Rodney's shoulders and looking down at him. "You, not so much."

"I'm crying inside," Rodney says. "So, not that this wasn't an absolute thrill, but when can we get rid of this rope?"

Sjola looks confused. "Did you complete the final task? The binding should fall away of its own accord."

"Yep," John says. "And I think Rodney has some choice words for the architect of that tunnel."

"The Dark Wall is my least favorite part, too," Sjola says. "But that is not the last obstacle."

John stares at Teyla, who's biting her lip. She knows something. "What?"

"Did you kiss?" Ronon asks. Pivoting, John stares at him.

"Kiss?" Rodney's voice goes up about two octaves. "What? No! Why would we do that? Did _you_ kiss?"

"Yep," Ronon says, wrapping an arm around Teyla, who grins, a wicked sparkle in her eyes. "Very enjoyable."

John's mind stutters over the visual. Rodney's wide-eyed with disbelief, or maybe his brain's slipped a gear too.

"The kiss can be anything," Sjola says. "Platonic, friendly, between siblings or business partners, or even romantic. The only criteria is that it is freely given." He pauses, scans the crowd. "Perhaps Merik should explain further."

Rodney butts in. "Hello, I don't care who explains it. I want my arm back! This is a very important arm!"

"We could just cut the rope," John suggests.

"Yes, of course," Sjola murmurs. "You are welcome to untie the cord yourselves, but –"

"But what?" John asks.

"In essence, you would be cutting ties with the Palarians," Teyla says.

"So, that's not an option." John rubs his forehead. "Okay, so, a... kiss."

"The _swega_ is based on the concepts of honest interaction and teamwork," Sjola says, veering into teaching mode. "Palarians participate in the course from the time they are quite young."

"Uh huh," John says, knowing it would be rude to ask Sjola to skip to the good, relevant parts.

"But there is more to be gained, a sense of community, for example," Sjola explains, tucking his hair behind one ear in a practiced gesture. "Most Palarians live out their entire lives here, underground, with a few people gating off-world at night. There hasn't been the need for a military infrastructure for a long time. We enjoy a comfortable life."

John doesn't have to worry about Rodney having the same compunction.

"So you're lucky, now about this cord..." Rodney wiggles his fingers, ignoring Teyla's shushing gesture.

"People choose to stay," Sjola says. "Eventually everyone knows most everyone else. Not everyone gets along. But the aim of the _swega_ has always been to build upon the fundamental connection between any two people here."

"They're both Palarians," Ronon says, and Sjola smiles up at him, motioning for Ronon to continue. "They're – it's a reminder of who you are, and who's next to you – you might hate each other but you can still work together if you have to."

John nods. "You've created a national identity, with a strong sense of tradition."

Rodney's fingernail digs into the pad of John's finger.

"So," John says, wincing, pushing against Rodney's arm, "Final task."

*

"The kiss requires an emotional component," John repeats back to Sjola.

"Yes," Sjola says. "Is that a problem?"

"Nope," John says weakly. "'Course not."

He and Rodney exchange a long look before John shuffles over, lifting their bound arms up and back, and wriggling closer.

"Okay," John says. "So..."

They've attracted a small group of onlookers.

"Pucker up," Ronon says.

"In front of everyone?" Rodney makes a squeaky noise.

John smacks a kiss onto Rodney's cheek. "Done."

"Hey!" Rodney yelps. "Warning!"

"It didn't work anyway," Teyla says. She points at their arms, still bound by the cord.

"Crap," John says, rocking back on his heels.

"Why didn't that work?" Rodney demands, eyes narrowed at Sjola.

"I'm not sure," Sjola says. "May I?" He runs his hand down the rope, which illuminates to a familiar blue and then goes dark again.

"Oh, no," Rodney says, and there's a tightness around his mouth that John associates with impending panic. "Did that look familiar? That doesn't even make sense, we haven't seen anything here that indicates anyone has the gene, or any Ancient tech at all."

"I could shoot it off," John offers.

"Or, and here's a novel idea, try kissing me like you mean it!" Rodney's eyes are wild.

Sjola's brow furrows. "You must still be missing the emotional connection."

Which is dumb, because this is Rodney. He's team and family and he's the guy who John spends a lot of his free time with, because they're friends. Good friends.

"Fine, let's get this over with," Rodney says, running a hand through his hair.

Stung, John says, "Wow, McKay, I'm shocked they're not beating down your door," and then he stops talking because Rodney kisses him with a quick press of lips.

"More?" Rodney asks, only it comes out slurred, because he hasn't ended the kiss; they're just standing there, attached at the mouth, and John feels his face heat up.

"This has never happened before," Sjola says, sounding puzzled. He's choosing his words with care. "Do you not... feel anything for one another? You've always seemed close."

Rodney tilts his head back, looking down his nose at John, and there's an intensity in his eyes that makes John shiver.

It's an unconscious impulse to lick his lips, and Rodney's eyes focus on John's mouth.

John says, "Close, yeah, of course, we're frien –" and Rodney grabs at John's head, sliding one palm down John's cheek, and kissing him, open-mouthed and wet. John maybe whines a little when Rodney pulls back. Holy crap, Rodney can kiss.

"See? Very friendly," John says, unable to tear his eyes away from Rodney's, and the corner of Rodney's mouth quirks up into a smile.

"Just so you know," Rodney starts. His fingers trail down John's chest, rubbing at John's side and then pushing back up to latch onto John's arm.

"Mm-hmm," John says, leaning in for another kiss.

"John," Rodney says, against John's lips. His voice is calm, accepting. "This means something to me. It doesn't have to, for you. Okay?"

"Okay, but you're an idiot," John replies, because of course it means something to him. Opening his mouth wider, he lets his tongue brush against Rodney's, tentatively until Rodney groans, deep in his throat, and then John's only thoughts are _good_ and _more_ and how he wants to touch Rodney everywhere.

Shifting closer, Rodney smooths his hands down John's back. There's a surreal moment where John thinks someone else has gotten into the mix, and then he realizes that their binding is gone, dropped off or disappeared and who cares because he's kissing Rodney.

*

At the feast, John sits next to Rodney, their arms pressed together. John thought they'd both welcome the freedom of movement, but instead he doesn't want to stray too far from Rodney's side, like something else binds him there.

Rodney's recounting some of their _swega_ tribulations to Ronon and Teyla, who laugh in all the right places. "– so out of place – and my nose itched – flowers in his hair – couldn't believe that look she gave us –"

Tracing his fingers up Rodney's thigh, John's rewarded when Rodney whips around to look at him.

"You know I'm not ticklish," Rodney says, a flirtatious edge to his tone.

"I know." John smiles. "Hey, Rodney."

Rodney tips his head closer. He's smiling too, one arm slipping around John's waist. "Hey, John."

Flicking a look back toward the Dark Wall, John crooks an eyebrow at Rodney and whispers, "Wanna go again?"  



End file.
